This summer is hard for Widdercat.
In spite of our efforts to cool the house, the prolonged heat leaves her drained of energy on her best days, and almost comatose on her worst.
She sleeps so deeply that we peer at her tummy hoping we’ll see it rise and fall, hoping she still breathes.
There is no movement for so long that our hearts contract.
At last she breathes, and so do we.
She looks amused to see our hovering concern so she stretches out a paw to acknowledge our attentiveness, to reassure us.
Her time with us is measured in units of unknown length - months, weeks, days, become irrelevant.
Only the next breath counts.